


Black out the sun

by PunkyNemo (TheVampireCat)



Category: Homeland
Genre: Angst, F/M, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-01
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-27 17:21:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10036022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheVampireCat/pseuds/PunkyNemo
Summary: He shouldn't have asked and he doesn't know why he did, but that doesn't change the fact that he's sitting on a park bench holding a stuffed bunny and Frannie Mathison is spinning around in circles on the grass in front of him.Sometimes all Peter Quinn needs is someone to save him from himself. And sometimes he doesn't need it at all.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I never thought for one second I'd write a Homeland fic but apparently I did. I surprise myself sometimes. 
> 
> This is set about six months after Quinn's breakdown at Carrie's house.
> 
> Title is from Seether's _Here and Now_.

He's not really sure what he's doing here. In the park. Around people. _Other_ people. _Normal_ people. Not really sure how it seems like only a few minutes ago he was standing in the comforting dimness of Carrie’s kitchen and now he’s outside, the sun shining on the back of his head and shoulders and making him feel warm and lazy and not quite as terrible as he should.

 

He's not sure who allowed this either.  Who had the fucking insane idea to apparently let this happen and be okay with it.

 

Except that’s not entirely true. Not _entirely_. Because he knows whose stupid idea it was. Knows that it was his. His alone. Even if he couldn't really believe it as the words came out of his mouth while he watched Frannie play with her breakfast and pretend to feed some of her cornflakes to Hop.

 

And he also knows who _let_ it happen. Because, after he blurted out that he could take Frannie to the park before he even really knew he was thinking about it, he was pretty sure Carrie was going to say no. In fact he was fucking counting on her to. Because when he realised he couldn't stuff the words back into his mouth and make them disappear; he couldn't turn back the clock to a minute earlier when the world made sense and they were playing at being some ridiculous nuclear family complete with PTSD and too much blood spilled in their wake - when he realised all that, his only hope was that Carrie Mathison would save him from himself.

 

She's always been so fucking good at it.

 

And then she didn't.

 

To be fair, it wasn't an immediate decision which means she was holding on to at least some of her faculties before they all failed her and she apparently entered this fugue state where she trusts him with her daughter. She _did_ go quiet for a good few seconds and forget about the coffee she was busy brewing and the buttered toast in front of her. She _did_ glance rapidly between him and Frannie and she _did_ frown in that way she does when she's analysing the effects of every possible outcome of her decisions on a global scale for the next twenty years.

 

And he actually felt something akin to relief in that moment. Almost wanted to release a breath and sink down onto the cool tiles and congratulate himself at dodging the bullet he’d just shot at his own head. Because Carrie was going to say no. She _had_ to. There was just no way after what happened the last time that she would even entertain the idea of leaving him alone with Frannie.

 

_(People screaming. Chanting. Rocks through the window. The skylight is open and men in kevlar are coming through. With guns. So many guns. And Frannie. Frannie crying in the bathroom. They’re here to take her. To steal her._

 

_She wants to go, she keeps saying she wants to go._

 

_But she can’t. She can’t go. Because he’s going to save her. He’s going to keep her safe. Carrie asked him to and he will. He’s reliable. He might not be likeable anymore but he’s still reliable._

 

_More guns. More screaming. It’s Carrie and she’s crying. She’s begging. He can never say no to her. And then she’s on him, punching him to the ground and he hates her. He hates for doing this. He fucking despises her and if he could turn over, if he could only get her off him… because how could she betray him like this? She was supposed to be on his side. She wasn’t supposed to trap him._

 

_She was supposed to look after him, like all those times he’s looked after her._

 

_Blinding lights. The hospital. People poking at him. Asking him the same damn questions over and over. And they won’t listen to his answers. And they give him more pills and more injections and his skull breaks in half and and and...)_

 

And sure, _sure_ nothing like that has happened in such a long time. He can even shower now without coercion and he only wakes up trying to smother the empty space next to him with a pillow once every few weeks. He takes his meds and he hasn’t had any seizures and even his limp isn’t so pronounced. But none of that means he's fixed. None of that means it won't happen again. None of that means he can be trusted.

 

He knows this. Carrie knows this.

 

And she was going to say no. She _was_ . Because she _had_ to.

 

She would be gentle with him. Kind. She knows her words can hurt him and that his mind doesn't function like it used to. That sometimes he doesn't understand things immediately and his responses aren't rational but rather based purely on quick, scorching emotions that take hold of him and make him lash out even when he doesn't want to.

 

So okay, she wasn't _just_ going to say no. That would have been too harsh, too direct. Too _truthful_. She was going to temper it. He could already hear her in his head, suggesting they all go out together later, just for a little while, just as long as he could handle it before the sun got too bright and the noise too loud. Or better yet, they could all stay in, play games, have an early supper. It would be good. It would be just as good as going to the park. It would be better.

 

She was going to save him. She always does.

 

But she didn't.

 

“Are you sure?” she asked.

 

And no, no. _Fuck_ , he wasn't sure. How in the seven hells could he be _sure_? This was Frannie and that was the park and this is him. Him. Peter-fucking-PTSD-Quinn. And he's fucked up and he's falling apart and sometimes he watches that fucking video on YouTube all fucking night when he can't sleep because somehow that makes him feel better - like it all happened to someone else. Some lucky asshole who's dead now and the better for it.

 

So no, no he was not fucking _sure_. He was about as far away from “sure” as one person could possibly be. And inside he was screaming “for fuck’s sake Carrie don't let me do this. Stop me you stupid fucking bitch. We can't both be crazy at the same time. It doesn't work like that and you fucking know it. One of us has to be okay and it can’t be me right now. It can’t be.”

 

And yet somehow the words coming out of his mouth, slurred and slow as they were, were saying just the opposite. They were saying yes, they were saying he's sure, of course he's sure because it'll be fine - it’s just the park, what could possibly go wrong? Because he can’t think of one damn thing.

 

More frowning, the line between her brows becoming deeper. Lips pursed.

 

And he was still begging her to say no. And he wanted to tell that, tell her that some other part of his brain had switched itself off and he had no fucking control over what he’s asking and she shouldn’t even be indulging this. Not for one second, not even to spare his feelings. He didn’t even think he'd react badly to a lecture as to why she would never - _never_ \- let the most precious thing in her life go off with him without supervision. He thinks he'd have welcomed it even.

 

And then she turned to Frannie.

 

“Frannie honey, you wanna go with Peter to the park?”

 

And for a second he actually stopped breathing. He thinks his heart might have stopped beating too. That maybe all the air got sucked out of the kitchen and out of the house and out of the whole fucking world and left him and everyone else gasping and flopping around like fish out of water.

 

Because this could not be happening. It’s not right. There’s no way it could be.

 

But it was.

 

Because Frannie didn’t suddenly start crying or run to her mother and attach herself to one of her legs. She didn’t suddenly become the responsible one and ask how Carrie could even be considering sending her off with the man who locked her in a bathroom and ran around the house shooting at strangers and taking down SWAT teams.

 

She should have. She should have reminded them both of this.

 

But she didn't.

 

She didn't even glance up from the apple slice she was toying with.

 

“Can Hop come?” she asked and for all the world she sounded bored. “He likes the park.”

 

“Sure honey. Just don't make Peter carry him when you get tired.”

 

Frannie shrugged. “Peter likes rabbits. He wouldn't mind.”

 

And that was true. He does and he wouldn't.

 

“Well I guess it’s okay then,” Carrie said as she turned back to her toast, took a long gulp of her coffee.

 

But it wasn’t _okay_. It was nowhere near any working definition of “okay”. It was about the most un-okay thing to have happened to him since someone decided to test fucking nerve gas on him and destroyed his body as well as his mind.

 

He doesn’t remember all too much about the next few minutes. He _thinks_ Carrie ate her toast while she read the paper and Frannie probably carried on play-feeding Hop. He’s really not too sure because he was busy trying to deal with the world falling out from under him and the walls closing in. Trying to stay standing even though the pain in his calf was shooting up his whole leg and through his chest, splitting his skull wide open and letting that black gas he knows he stores there fill the world and suffocate them all.

 

And for a second it felt like his head was on fire and he could smell the sickly stench of anise in the air and he was trying so hard to tell Carrie no. No, he couldn't do this and what was she thinking and doesn't she knew he can't be the responsible one now. She can’t put that on him too. That she _has_ to do it. She _has_ to be strong for both of them and part of that means not trusting him. Never trusting him. Maybe ever.

 

But he couldn't.

 

And somehow she did.

 

And here he is. In the park. With the _normal_ people. Hop sitting next to him and Frannie blowing soap bubbles into the wind, turning in circles so that the skirt of her little purple dress flares and her sandals make grooves in the grass.

 

There's a small crowd off to the left gathered around a sandpit and a merry-go-round, some swings, and he's managed to avoid that although he can still hear them, still feel them all moving and creating ripples in the air, making it feel alive.

 

And he's legitimately surprised at how okay he feels about this now. That he can sit here on a park bench with a stuffed bunny and just look like any other goddamn parent out here. And sure he still walks with a limp and the speech therapy is slow going but no one gives him funny looks, no one mistakes him for a homeless person and pulls their kids away to go play somewhere else. No one throws rocks or gets up in his face.

 

That’s not to say he thinks this was good idea. It wasn’t. Objectively it ranks up there in about the top three bad ideas he’s ever had. And it probably still ranks as the worst thing Carrie has ever agreed to. And considering Brody and Islamabad and pretty much anything Carrie has ever done that’s not an easy achievement.

 

And yet… and yet, maybe it’ll be okay. Now that he’s here and he’s settled and he knows what’s going on, maybe he can handle it.

 

 _Maybe_.

 

He concedes that it might be a possibility, even if he thinks it’s a far slimmer one that Carrie does.

 

She did still have some sense though, a small tenuous hold on reality. She told him this little park excursion was only for an hour. She was going to take them there and then go and do some grocery shopping. She'd be back to pick them up by midday, not a minute later. No, he wasn't going to drive and no, he wasn't taking his gun.

 

And he was okay with that. Carrie kept the guns locked away since he came out of hospital and while he'd raged and fought against it at first, he accepted it now and hasn't really thought about it for a while.

 

So here he is, like a normal person on a normal Saturday doing normal things with a normal kid.

 

And it feels so fucking weird he's not sure what to do with any of it.

 

Frannie’s having a good time though. She's given up on the bubbles and is now just spinning in a circle, making herself giddy - her arms outstretched and she looks like a little purple flower reaching for the sun; a furious little whirlwind that scares the shit out of him.

 

“Watch me Peter,” she yells and he does.

 

He does watch.

 

And he doesn't quite know how something so sweet and so beautiful could come out of such an ugly time. How despite all the shit that Carrie and Brody did to themselves and each other that somehow their love was pure enough to create this.

 

He wonders if he’ll also get a second chance. A do-over. If something good could come out of this time too. If Carrie could beat the odds again.

 

He thinks she could. He thinks Carrie can do any damn thing she wants.

 

So he watches Frannie spin and he considers how much he's going to need to atone when he eventually gets round to the business of atoning. How many people he’ll need to beg forgiveness from and if there'll be anything left of Peter Quinn once he's done. If what's still there could ever be good enough.

 

If it ever really was.

 

He shakes his head. He's getting ahead of himself. He's better but he's not well. He won't be well for a while. And he needs to stop forcing it. Listen to the doctors when they say to take things one day at a time. And he thinks he’s already doing enough for today.

 

“Peter, can I go play in the sandpit?”

 

Frannie. Standing in front of him with her arms still up in the air, reaching for the sky. And she's looking at him with those eyes and the last thing he wants to do is refuse her. Because she's here and she wasn't afraid and in her little four-year-old way she's forgiven him. And he doesn't want to ruin that. He doesn't want his own fucked up head to take that away from him. But he glances over to the crowd - the soccer moms and the grinning dads, the shrieking children - and he just can't. He can't make himself move, he can't make himself go there. Even the thought - the two seconds he plays out in his head when he stands and walks in that direction - makes him feel like his brain is trying to burst out of his skull and his gut lurches hard.

 

And he finds he’s scanning them all, looking for hidden weapons, detonators. Looking for anything suspicious. Knives hidden in Starbucks cups, guns inside picnic baskets, grenades tucked away in pockets - pins pulled and ready to be tossed to the ground.

 

Canisters of nerve gas concealed in jackets. No antidotes this time. None.

 

And for a second he wants to pick Frannie up and run. Run as far away as he can. Get her somewhere safe and call Carrie and tell her there’s something going down in the park and she needs to fix it, she needs to stop it before all those kids die. But he can’t let them die. He can’t walk away like a coward only looking after his own. He has to save them, he has to save all of them…

 

And this _isn’t_ real. It’s not. This is his fucked up brain being fucked up. This is not him. This is not Peter Quinn. This is some monster made of hate and fear and nerve gas that sometimes tries to take over and mess with his head. That makes him do things and say things and feel things that aren’t real. And he’s trying. He’s trying so hard to hold onto that rational part of him that knows these are just parents and these are just kids and no one is going to blow up anything, that this wouldn’t even be a remotely decent target for an attack. He’s trying so, so hard, but the more he tries to hold on, the more it slips away.

 

“Please Peter.”

 

Frannie again. Whinier. Little tremble in her voice.

 

He thinks he might throw up. He thinks he might legitimately hurl everything within him onto the ground, over himself, over her. His rage, his pain, that black gas that still lives somewhere deep and dark inside him and kills him piece by piece, steals shards of his life away and hopes he won't notice.

 

(Except he does notice. He does. It's not like he's forgotten the Peter Quinn from before, not like he doesn't know he existed and can't remember that once upon a time he was suave and smooth and didn't limp. He was charming and reliable and his mind razor sharp.

 

That once upon a time Carrie almost loved him. And he was almost worth it.)

 

Another heave, gut pulling into a sharp pain and suddenly that sunlight that was so pleasant before is too hot. Searing against the back of his neck and his shoulders. Eating him up and swallowing him.

 

And he can't… he won't. He won't let this happen. Carrie trusted him with Frannie and even though she's fucking nuts he has to be the responsible one now. He _has_ to.

 

“No Frannie,” he manages to grit out between his teeth. “Maybe when your mom’s here.”

 

And he's waiting for her to object, waiting for her to throw that perfectly expected and normal tantrum. Because it’s not a strange request. Not remotely and she has every right to want to do it and he has no reason to refuse her. And he’s waiting for her to demand that he get over himself or worse, run off by herself and force him to follow her.

 

To chase her down.

 

_What the fuck Quinn? What the fuck? She's a fucking baby. You don't chase babies down._

 

And this was such a bad idea. Such a godawful bad idea and how the fuck did Carrie ever allow this? How could she _not_ have stopped it? And again he feels like he can’t breathe, but now he can’t move either and his legs feel like useless lumps of clay and his arms are heavy and useless at his sides.

 

“That's okay,” Frannie says and for a second he doesn't think he's heard her right, that his already damaged mind has found a new and crueller way to mess with him. But then she maneuvers herself up onto the bench next to him and takes Hop and puts him on her lap, watches as a butterfly floats past on a gentle breeze.

 

And all he can do is watch how her legs cast shadows in the grass, how they sway and swing and how somehow that seems to push some of the noise away, soothe the pounding in his head until he doesn't feel like he's on fire anymore.

 

Easy now. Slower. World coming back into focus.

 

And then he can move again and he can breathe. And the sun feels almost pleasant and the people, well the people are just people.

 

“Was it going to happen again?” Frannie asks. “Like at the house?”

 

_This kid. This fucking kid._

 

He’s not going to lie to her - he doesn’t think that would be very trustworthy of him. But he’s not going to scare her either.

 

“You remember that?”

 

She bobs her head.

 

“Mommy said you were trying to protect me.”

 

And he’s not sure he can do this. He’s relived those hours so many times. With Carrie, with Saul, with the police and the millions of doctors he’s been subjected to. He’s not sure he has it in him to do it with Frannie too.

 

“Were you scared?” she asks.

 

“Yeah.”

 

She's quiet for a while.

 

“Why?”

 

He shakes his head “I don't know.”

 

And it's the truth. Even if he wanted to get into the ins and outs of PTSD with a four-year-old, there's not really much more he can say. Because he doesn't know _why_ he was scared. Sure he remembers thinking he needed to protect Frannie for Carrie and that these people were coming to take her away, steal her, coming to hurt him even if he didn't care all too much about that. Sure he remembered thinking it was like being back in Syria and Iraq and almost hearing the gunfire and the explosions. But he doesn't remember _why_ he thought that. He doesn't remember the exact moment the overenthusiastic and out-of-line press turned into enemy soldiers, the moment the brownstone became a hostage situation. He doesn’t remember why he threw that reporter down the stairs - only that he had to. He doesn’t know why he shot at the crowd, only that it seemed the most logical thing to do to make them leave.

 

And it’s so hard to put into words. So hard to explain to people who know and understand PTSD - who’ve studied it and lived with it and get it. And if he can’t even get through to them, what hope does he have to get Frannie to understand? Where would he even begin?

 

“Sometimes when I get scared I sleep with Hop and then I'm not scared anymore,” she says.

 

“Yeah well, Hop is very brave,” he tells her and she grins as if he’s just made a huge joke.

 

“Was Peter Rabbit brave too?” she asks and he shakes his head.

 

“Why not?”

 

He shrugs.

 

“He was always getting in trouble, getting himself into messes he couldn't get out of.”

 

“Did someone rescue him?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Mommy used to rescue people.”

 

He didn't realise a four-year-old could punch him in the guts with such exquisite precision. And there's nothing he can say to it, so he keeps his mouth shut, watches the trees swaying in the breeze, hears the children laughing in the sandpit. And it's okay. He can push some of the terror away, fight away the flashing lights and the smell of anise and he can breathe. Slow. Sure. Steady. In and out. In and out.

 

For a while Frannie just sits there next to him, a small comforting presence, an innocence that should have been lost but somehow wasn’t. The wind lifts her hair and he can smell the baby shampoo Carrie uses on her. And then she looks longingly over to where the crowd is at the sandpit and he's so close to giving in. To taking her over and letting the cards fall where they may. And if he fucks up and if he has another episode and loses control and the world falls apart, it can't be any worse than what happened last time. He's unarmed and yes he probably knows 25 ways to kill a man with his bare hands but it can't be that bad. Maybe he can do this.

 

For Frannie. Maybe he can.

 

But he doesn’t have to. Because she saves him.

 

She saves him from himself.

 

She's off the bench and standing in front of him and her eyes are far too knowing and concerned for a four-year-old. And he has no idea what's coming. If she's going to demand to go home or to play in the sandpit or just tell him she doesn't want to spend anymore time with him.

 

He can find a way to handle the first two. The third though. Disappointing her again… he's not sure he could live with himself. Not sure he'd want to.

 

And then she's pushing Hop into his arms, taking his hands and putting them around the bunny’s somewhat sticky middle and he can feel the brush of the long, floppy ears against his bare arm.

 

“Here. Hop can keep you safe,” she says. And when he looks at her, her eyes are wide and blue and her red hair waves in the wind, and she's the spitting image of her father. Except she's not. It doesn't matter that she has Brody’s features, because the look on her face is all Carrie.

 

_(You have no right. You have no fucking right)_

 

“Don't you need him?” he asks and she shakes her head decisively.

 

“Nope.”

 

“But what about when you get scared?”

 

“You get more scared than me.”

 

It’s true. He does.

 

“You can give him back when you aren't scared anymore,” she says.

 

And god, _oh god_ he's not sure when that will be. It could be months, years. It could be decades if he's unlucky. And yet… and yet it doesn't feel as far away as it could be. It doesn't seem like it could be forever. It feels like there's the smallest glimmer of an end to this. That maybe one day he won't have to worry about his head feeling like it's going to explode and maybe one day he won't hesitate before getting into the shower. Maybe when he smells Carrie’s perfume or her shampoo he won't be searching for the stench of the nerve gas in there too. He won't have to feel the relief when it doesn't come.

 

But that's not today, and it won't be tomorrow either, so he holds Hop a little tighter for now. And he doesn't care that he has orange juice stains matting some of his fur, nor that he's pretty sure Frannie drools on him when she sleeps.

 

Little bit of spit never hurt anyone.

 

And part of him just wants to sob. To stuff his face into that soft bunny fur and just cry and cry and cry until there’s nothing left. Until he’s broken the world wide open and drowned it back into making sense again.

 

But he doesn’t. He won’t. Maybe later. Maybe later when he’s alone and the sun isn’t so bright and the world is quiet and lonely enough to suffocate him and he wants to die all over again.

 

_(You have no right)_

 

Carrie's behind him. He's known it for a while. Heard her footsteps on the grass, the smell of full roast coffee she likes so much in the air. But he doesn't turn. Not yet.

 

“Thank you,” he tells Frannie and she giggles, pushes herself away from him dramatically and goes to spin in the grass again.

 

“Watch me Peter. Watch me.”

 

He watches.

 

She's four. She doesn't understand the gravity of the situation. Or maybe she does. Maybe she has them all figured out and they’re still busy playing catch up.

 

And when Carrie sits down next to him and hands him a paper cup of coffee, he wonders if this is what normal feels like. If this is what all those other people here today are feeling. If they’re worried about sunburn and scraped knees instead of bombs and biological weapons and if one day that could be him too.

 

Him and Carrie.

 

The thought’s a little too much for right now.

 

“How’s she been?” Carrie asks.

 

“Dizzy.”

 

 _Amazing. Wonderful_.

 

“How’ve you been?”

 

“Less dizzy.”

 

She snorts.

 

“Good to hear.”

 

The sit in silence for a while and when she reaches over and takes his hand it isn’t anything. It’s simple and uncomplicated and he likes how her fingers thread through his and how natural it feels when she tugs their combined hands to rest just above her knee. There’s no expectation, no anticipation. He just likes the press of her skin against his, the rub of his thumb along her knuckles and he thinks she likes it too. Thinks he could see her doing this again.

 

And he knows if it ever happens for them it’ll be a long while still. There’ll be no desperate hungry kisses against car doors or deep, dark confessions of love and devotion in the near future. If that happens it happens. But for now this is enough. It’s more than enough.

 

“Thank you,” he tells her.

 

“For what?”

 

_Everything. For saving me. For looking after me. For caring about me when I didn’t care about myself._

 

_For this. For today. For letting me do this. For trusting me._

 

“The coffee,” he says and she looks at him like she doesn’t believe him but doesn’t actually know what he’s talking about either.

 

“That’s alright.”

 

And she squeezes his hand a little tighter and shifts slightly so that their shoulders are touching and her thigh is against his.

 

“Do we have to leave?” he asks and she shakes her head.

 

“No, not yet.”

 

So he sips his coffee and she sips hers and Frannie spins and the sun shines on his shoulders and it’s okay. It’s not hard and it’s not scary and all he can smell in the air is grass and Carrie’s perfume and his head isn’t going to explode.

 

And when Frannie, giddy and silly, makes her way over to them and asks Carrie if she can play in the sandpit, Carrie turns to him and asks if he’s going to be alright if they go just for a little while. And he says yes, yes it’ll be fine. They can go and take their time. He’s got nowhere he needs to be.

 

“You sure?” she asks.

 

And this time he is. There’s no sudden lack of air. No tight feeling in his chest. He doesn’t want to fall to his knees or crack his head wide open.

 

“I’m sure,” he says. “I have Hop. And Hop’s very brave.”

 


End file.
